


Check-In

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: Gen, introductions?? first meetings???? idk, just a bunch of silly shit LOL, lotsa awkwardness tbh, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 18:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12152655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: "In this moment, the grey Gelert’s glare seems more murderous than the blood-drunk eyes of half the beasts Shimon’s fought in his life, but... well, that’s just the thing: heisused to staring into the eyes of monsters... Shimon’s confidence doesn’t falter, even when Ambroise groans a bit under his breath, then reaches over the counter and grabs Shimon by his shawl, attempting to pull him away as if the hunter were simply a disobedient child at a candy shop’s window. "A little scene depicting how my boy Shimon met a certain grey Gelert... and his pet.





	Check-In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jammy/gifts).



> //inhales// BOI I have meaning to write this for... centuries... and I finally got it done!! And, uh... huh, you know what's funny to think about? This... would be taking place when both of these naste Gelerts are in their mid to late twenties. omfg. Young boys...
> 
> Uh, but... yeah, okay, regardless, enjoy this big batch of nonsense :P

“Oh, dear gods, look at that fluffy baby...”

Ambroise hears Shimon’s words at exactly the same time he hears the inn’s door opening.

The exhausted Darigan Krawk is far used to Shimon’s constantly commenting on the people who enter and exit the Golden Gallion Inn, though, especially considering how often the two friends spend their evenings chatting at the reception desk. Because of this, he hardly pays the young hunter’s words any mind... at first. Unfortunately, though, he knows full well that Shimon will only continue to mutter out increasingly-aggressive _look-look-look_ s until he acknowledges whoever-the-hell the Gelert is talking about; and so, reluctantly, Ambroise finishes the sentence in the book he’s reading, places a marker between the pages and closes them gently, calmly turns to see who Shimon is looking at with a half-stifled yawn...

And then inhales sharply in a bit of panic.

Clad in dark, earthy shades of brown and red, an incredibly shady-looking grey Gelert is now slowly making his way towards the desk where Ambroise and Shimon stand, his long cloak billowing in the medieval winter’s backdraft as the door shuts behind him, blurring his silhouette like camouflage. His eyes are completely concealed beneath the hood of his snow-covered cowl, but it is still clear — just from the scowl that paints his muzzle alone — that he is... unhappy... to say the least. And not in a sad sort of way.

Outwardly, at least.

The oddest thing, though — well, odd to _Shimon_ , at least — is that this skeevy-looking man has _the_ most adorable petpet Shimon feels he’s ever seen in his life sitting on his shoulders: a chubby, fluffy faerie Gallion with seafoam-coloured eyes and a bright red ribbon tied around its neck. It stands clumsily on the man’s shoulders, its delicate wings buzzing softly as it attempts to shake the snow out of its mane — and off of its owner's head — without losing balance, making disgruntled little sneeze-snort sounds with every fumbled step.

Ambroise knows Shimon well enough to know _exactly_ what the young hunter is thinking, so he reacts to what he’s positive the hunter will say before he even says it: “ _Nyet_.”

And he _does_ say it. Despite Ambroise’s stern “no,” Shimon turns to look at the Krawk with the most endearingly childlike excitement glistening in his eyes, completely ignoring the clawed finger that Ambroise has sternly pointed in his face alongside his warning. “I wanna pet it,” the hunter half-whispers, his tone mirroring his expression.

But Ambroise simply — strictly — reiterates: “ _Absolutely_ not.”

What’s _strangest_ to Shimon in this moment, though, is that... well, it’s not _at all_ like Ambroise to be stern, let alone outright _commanding_. Shimon is honestly more confused by the Krawk’s reaction to his statements rather than offended. After all, he’s a bit notorious around the inn for always — or, at the very least, always _wanting_ to be — petting the guests’ petpets as they make their way through the doors of Ambroise’s inn, and never once has Ambroise or any of the guests complained about his love of and kindness towards the little creatures.

So then... what makes this man and his Gallion so different?

Regardless, Ambroise starts batting his hands in a shooing motion, half-desperately attempting to get Shimon to leave the counter, frustratedly repeating under his breath, “ _Ukhodit’, ukhodit’, ukhodit’..._ ”

But the pale Gelert doesn’t budge on the subject. “Why not?”

He sounds genuinely, heartbreakingly devastated, and his crestfallen expression doesn’t help.

But Ambroise refuses to be swayed. After all, this is deathly serious — ...pun totally intended. He bats his hands more aggressively. “Because he does _not_ like company,” he says, his panicked frustration obvious despite his hushed tone.

Shimon lets out a little gasp in response, choosing to take only one piece of (wrong) information out of Ambroise’s sentence: “So it’s a _boy_ Gallion?”

Ambroise slaps a frustrated palm against his forehead, but then continues with his aggressive shooing motions. “ _No_ ,” he says, “it is _girl_ Gallion, but I was talking about her _owner_.”

Who, by the way, is almost at the desk now.

Still, all that the Krawk’s words have accomplished is helping the excited expression find its way back to Shimon’s face. The young hunter inhales dramatically — audibly — in response, then asks an enthusiastic, “What’s her name?”

Now seeing just how close the shady Gelert is to the desk, Ambroise’s motions grow desperate. He ignores the hunter’s question completely. “ _Shimon_ ,” he scolds — which in of itself is _beyond_ unnaturally aggressive, considering he _never_ uses _anyone’s_ first name — “get the hell away fro—”

But it’s too late. Despite Ambroise’s angrily hissing out the hunter’s name, and his clawing aimlessly at the Gelert’s sleeves in a vain attempt to pull him back, Shimon trots his way up to the grey Gelert — who had courteously stopped walking a few feet away from the desk, probably assuming that the two were wrapping up a check-in — and energetically asks, “What’s her name?”

Ambroise immediately buries his face in his hands, knocking his glasses off his nose with the motion.

The grey Gelert honestly — but somehow not _too_ surprisingly — looks more furious than shocked by the hunter’s brashness, which _does_ still catch Shimon a bit off-guard... but not nearly enough to deter him. The paler Gelert pulls his thick chestnut hair out of the left side of his face, revealing one sparkling gold eye, and excitedly looks between the silent man’s shadowed glare and the bright eyes of the nervous-looking Gallion on his shoulders.

There’s a horribly awkward silence for a few sluggish seconds, but then the grey Gelert lifts his nose to look Shimon dead in the eye — a threatening, murderous glare — before turning his attention towards Ambroise, protectively angling his right shoulder away from Shimon with the motion, as if to shield his petpet from the hunter’s presence altogether. “Are you two _finished_ , then, Ambroise...?” the grey Gelert asks, the tone of his tenor blacker than death itself.

Ambroise attempts to sigh out his frustration with this whole budding ordeal — as well as his slight but honest fear — and picks his glasses back up off the desk, gently placing them back on his nose and turning to look towards the two Gelerts. “Yes, yes,” he says, then begins to reach under the counter. “Let me get your key...”

Shimon is persistent, though, and ignores the both of them for the sake of his own personal quest. “Can I pet her?”

In this moment, the grey Gelert’s glare seems more murderous than the blood-drunk eyes of half the beasts Shimon’s fought in his life, but... well, that’s just the thing: he _is_ used to staring into the eyes of monsters... Shimon’s confidence doesn’t falter, even when Ambroise groans a bit under his breath, then reaches over the counter and grabs Shimon by his shawl, attempting to pull him away as if the hunter were simply a disobedient child at a candy shop’s window. “ _Ostavlyat_.”

Shimon bats Ambroise’s hand away, though, still ignoring his commands. “She’s absolutely precious,” he begins to fawn, _also_ still ignoring the grey Gelert’s glare... and completely not noticing as the man slowly begins to reach for the hilt of a sword that’s fastened to his hip, hidden under the folds of his cloak. Shimon is too distracted to see the surreptitious motion. His every ounce of focus on nothing but the Gallion — who, in return, is giving him slow and hesitant blinks of her eyes. She’s not quite fearful — or so it seems — yet is still apprehensive. “She’s so pretty!” the hunter continues to gush, “And her mane looks so soft, and she’s so _chubby_ , oh gods, I love her...”

“ ‘ _Love_ ’ is an awfully strong word for you to use, don’t you think?” the grey Gelert suddenly snaps, taking a strong step forward, his grip on his sword’s hilt tightening.

Ambroise has leapt halfway over the desk at this point in his attempting to get Shimon to back the fuck off, but it _still_ isn’t working — not even the slightest bit. After all, Shimon has dealt with more terrifying creatures than this man before — to say the very least — so he isn’t the least bit afraid. That being said, though... he can clearly tell that his words had struck a _seriously_ bad chord with the man, so... Well, he doesn’t back down, but he _does_ begin his continuation with a half-apology. “Okay, okay, that’s true,” he says, lifting his hands and batting them in the air, as if to brush his poor word choice away, “but... but it’s obvious that _you_ love _her_ ,” he then says. “Oy, just look at her! She’s so happy and healthy!”

Well, hmm.

Now the grey Gelert looks... horrified.

And Ambroise cusses loudly under his breath before saying a loud, harsh, “ _Shimon,_ _ostav’ yego_.”

Well... the good-and-bad news is that Ambroise’s words somehow — thankfully — managed to distract the grey Gelert from whatever tangent his mind had just begun to follow. It seemed as though the still-hostile-seeming man had cycled through about a half dozen emotions in just the last few seconds, but his shadowed expression finally settles into a sort of sarcastic disgust once his scattered mind finally takes in the entirety of what the Krawk’s just said. He looks over at Ambroise, then lets out a short, rude, scoff-like laugh. “ _This_ is Shimon...”

 _Finally_ one of them has said something that gets the hunter to shut the hell up... from confusion. And only for a second. But still.

It’s phrased more like a statement than a question, but still, Ambroise answers with a hesitant, embarrassed-sounding, “Um... yes... this is Shimon...” He then runs his fingers through his hair, seeming almost shameful about what he’s just said, and lets out a long, exhausted breath.

Shimon’s focus now quickly darts between the Gelert in front of him and his friend who stands behind him holding his head in his hands. “Wait... wait, wait, wait...” It takes a second for the hunter to fully process what’s just been said, but he eventually begins to point an accusatory finger in each of the other two’s directions, making Ambroise cringe a bit and the other Gelert take an apprehensive step back. Finally, though, Shimon’s focus settles on the grey Gelert. “You’ve heard about me?” ...But then quickly shifts to Ambroise. “You... you _talk_ about me?” Then... back to the Gelert. “Well... well then you know I can be trusted, yes?” Back to Ambroise. “Uh... yes? Good things have been said, yes?” Back to the Gelert. “I hope so, because I really do lo— or, uh...” He manages to stop himself. “Uh... rather, I just...” Pause. He changes his mind entirely on what he was going to say, instead clearing his throat, standing tall, then extending a strong, eager hand out towards the grey Gelert — who, again, simply takes a step back. “Shimon Stoneark, sir,” the young hunter introduces himself, giving one of his signature, deranged-looking grins. “Pleasure to meet you. And your name...?”

Ambroise has given up on the scene entirely. He just holds his head in his hands and clenches his eyes shut, trying his hardest not to groan audibly... and praying that he doesn’t get blamed for this whole ordeal.

The grey Gelert looks down at Shimon’s hand, then back up towards his eyes — eyes that, honestly, are just as obscured as his own. His shadowed glare narrows; then, “ _My_ you’re chatty...” he mutters darkly.

The comment is said scathingly enough to leave a burn, but Shimon _still_ isn’t deterred. He says nothing in return, though his grin widens while he keeps his arm extended, seeming hopeful.

The silence that follows is _painfully_ awkward.

At this point, the grey Gelert is simply trying his hardest to glare this strange man into submission — a technique which has never failed him before — but... well, it doesn’t seem to be working, for once. Nor are the angry glances he shoots towards the innkeeper — one of the very few people in the world he would honestly consider a “friend” — that he _thought_ he could trust... He sneers a bit down at Shimon’s palm, then looks back up, then...

Well, surprisingly enough, then he gives in.

Just kinda.

He slowly releases his grip on his sword’s hilt, then reluctantly takes the hunter’s hand. “It’s a _pleasure_ , truly,” he sneers, the sarcasm in his tone so physical that it’s nearly visible in the air. He doesn’t offer his name in return, though, instead turning back to Ambroise and beginning to say, “Ambroise, may we speak in _private...?_ ”

But, well... “beginning to” is the key phrase there.

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

Not before the Gallion — who, up until this point, had been simply sitting on her owner’s shoulders and silently studying the paler Gelert before them with careful eyes — begins to clumsily tiptoe her way down the grey Gelert’s arm, steadying herself with her wings, leaning forward as much as she can to sniff at Shimon’s fingers.

All three of them seem to notice what she’s doing at the same time. Ambroise, who had been nervously peeking through his fingers, suddenly throws his hands onto the countertop in shock while the grey Gelert gives his pet an honestly horrified expression. Shimon, bless his heart, is the only one who _doesn’t_ look mortified in this moment. In fact... he looks like the happiest person alive. “ _Oy, vas prelestnyy rebenok..._ ”

Once the grey Gelert has, seemingly, completely wrapped his head around what is happening, he slowly — though still _incredibly_ reluctantly — extends his arm outward so his Gallion can make her way over to Shimon’s still-outstretched fingers. She begins to sniff the hunter’s palm as her owner, despite himself — and honestly without even realising it — mumbles a soft, “She... hates strangers...”

Ambroise, too, can’t keep his mouth shut as he watches the Gallion press her nose into Shimon’s palm, practically making the hunter melt. “She would not come near me for _hours_ when first I was meeting her,” the Krawk says, looking the grey Gelert in the eyes.

He returns Ambroise’s confused expression, then turns his attention back to his pet and, moreso, the beyond-giddy hunter standing before him, who has now begun to talk to the petpet in a hushed, polite tone — _“May I pet you? Is that okay?”_

The Gallion lifts her big, bright eyes, losing her balance for a few seconds as her tail swooshes strongly — excitedly — then centres herself once again and angles her head down and to the side, as if to tell Shimon, _Sure, go ahead_.

And the hunter, completely fluent in the language of little creatures, listens unhesitatingly. With an almost saccharinely genuine smile of excitement, the cream-coloured Gelert begins to give the Gallion a few gentle scratches behind her horns and under her chin, making her purr a bit in joy and close her eyes in contentment.

It’s... beyond odd...

Or, well... maybe it’s just a sign, the grey Gelert then finds himself thinking. She always _has_ been very good at judging people’s character... if not a bit hesitant to do so at first. That in of itself, though, is just all the more reason why this is so strange... and also seemingly symbolic of something beyond the hunter merely having an affinity for petpets. She’s only ever like this when she trusts someone completely to their core...

So then, maybe...

Eventually, after giving it enough thought, the grey Gelert seems to give up entirely. He sighs a bit in frustration, mumbles out a barely-audible, “You are _beyond_ trying sometimes, Katy...” then pulls the Gallion back into his arms to hold her steady so she doesn’t keep wobbling on his arm, though also takes a few steps forward so Shimon can continue to pet her. “This is Katydid,” the grey Gelert finally admits, sounding defeated in doing so, though... also sad, too, it seems, oddly enough... “She, uh... must see something... _interesting_... in you,” he then continues, sounding irritated, “because she’s _hardly_ ever this forward...”

The Gallion looks up into her owner’s still-narrowed eyes, as if able to tell that his words were meant to hide an angry lecture aimed towards her.

All three could all swear that she’s smiling evilly at him.

Shimon simply starts giggling a bit under his breath at the sight and sounds, beyond happy with the turn of events. “She is cautious still, though!” he announces, seeming proud. “That is very good. She is very intelligent.” He then speaks directly to the Gallion — completely eloquently, as if she were genuinely fluent in their language. “I agree with your original sentiment, malen’kiy zver’,” he tells her. “Never trust strangers without first giving them a stern studying. And I’m glad I passed the test!” He chuckles proudly as the Gallion gives an excited little yip, then squirms in her owner’s arms, loosening one of her tiny paws so she can gently claw at the hunter’s sleeve.

The grey Gelert, too, can’t help but smile just the slightest bit when he sees just how excited his pet is at meeting a new friend. She’s hardly ever this trusting or energetic, after all. She takes after her owner in those regards, honestly — sceptical, hesitant, and, although very loving once close to someone, still rather reserved. She’s never this squirmy or noisy, yipping softly and batting her paws playfully...

No, no, she’s _never_ this playful.

 _Especially_ not in winter.

And that’s the oddest thing about this whole ordeal, honestly: despite the fact that this is the eve of the first snowfall of the season, and it’s so very close to the holiday, and the air is heavy with the stench of painful reveries... she and her owner are both smiling.

The glance that Ambroise and the grey Gelert exchange next carries an entire conversation in its wake — heavy, intimate, and silent. It ends with a bittersweet smile on Ambroise’s part, and a bit of a melancholy sigh on the Gelert’s.

The thing is, _Ambroise_ knows what this all means — all this laughter and smiles. He knows that the grey Gelert only ever comes to this inn when he absolutely can’t handle being in his otherwise-empty home, or is on the verge of self-catastrophe. He knows how painful the winter — the barren trees, and the snowfall, and the holidays — is for the Gelert and his Gallion both. He knows what happened all those years before to the both of them, and the weight that those events’ residue still places on their shoulders. On top of all that, he _also_ knows what still _does_ happen to this day — the messy, bloody aftermath of it all. He knows _everything_...

But Shimon doesn’t.

Not a damn thing.

And that’s what makes his next words so shocking to the rest of them.

The pale hunter, still giving the Gallion loving pets and scratches, looks up into her owner’s still-shadowed honeycomb eyes, then gives the man a polite, genuine smile. “In all honesty, sir,” Shimon begins, his tone a bit more earnest than usual, “it’s quite refreshing to see someone so worried about their petpet’s safety. Most people I’ve met just let their little ones wander up to anyone within leash-range, as if the world weren’t full of villains.” He snickers a bit more, looking back down to the Gallion for a few seconds. His smile then turns softer as he looks back up. “She is, ah... very lucky to have an owner as protective as you,” the hunter continues, his sincerity a warm — but somewhat painful — embrace. “It’s obvious that you love her to death, and keep her very safe. That is very admirable. I, ah... I envy that a lot.” Pause. “The world could use more good people like you.”

Silence.

Well, that’s weird...

Now it suddenly looks like the grey Gelert could cry.

And... Shimon isn’t sure what to say.

And apparently neither does Ambroise, who’s practically stopped breathing altogether.

The cream-coloured Gelert, unnerved by the sudden and drastic shift in this conversation’s aura, turns around to look at Ambroise for some sense of stability, but is only met with an equally-sombre expression as the grey Gelert’s, though... a bit more bittersweet, if anything.

Well... shit...

Did he say something bad...?

Now incredibly nervous — perhaps even embarrassed — Shimon runs his fingers through the Gallion’s mane one last time before pulling his hands back and lacing his fingers behind him, clearing his throat loudly and forcing some semblance of his typical energy to return to him — alongside his signature crooked grin, of course. “My apologies for keeping you so long, sir,” he says, his tone finally returning to its theatrical — and loud — default. “I just, ah... really adore petpets.”

Seeing that — thank Fyora — Shimon finally seems to be willing to leave the conversation where it lies, the grey Gelert pulls little Katydid into a tight hug against his chest; and she — seemingly detecting his shift in mood, too — snuggles lovingly into the folds of his cloak. “It’s... fine,” the man says softly after a nervous clearing of his throat. He then averts his eyes of the hunter entirely, looking instead towards Ambroise, seeming a bit nervous.

Thankfully, Ambroise understands the silent message his look conveys. The Krawk quickly ducks under the counter again, then pulls out a small golden key, holding it up in the air to wordlessly tell the grey Gelert that he can take his usual room in the back of the property — ironically enough, though unbeknownst to anyone other than Ambroise, one of the luxury cottages beside where Shimon lives.

He decides to keep that a secret, though.

With a sigh of obvious relief, the grey Gelert turns back to Shimon, then — while still keeping his eyes down — softly says, “It has been a _pleasure_ meeting you, Shimon, truly... but I would like to get to my room now.”

It seems that all three — maybe even four — of them are surprised by how genuine the words sound as they mingle with the air.

But Shimon has no further objections, thank the gods. He gives a warm smile, takes a few steps back, then drapes one arm over his diaphragm and gives a deep, respectful bow. “Of course, sir,” he says, energetic as always, though somehow still softer than usual. “Pleasure to meet you as well.” The hunter then takes a large step to his right, making room for the other Gelert to approach Ambroise at the desk and _finally_ take the key from his hands.

Funny to think that, if only Shimon had done that ten minutes ago, none of this would have happened.

The grey Gelert lowers his head once more as he begins toward the doorway that leads into the inn’s snow-laden garden. “Goodnight to both of you,” he says softly, keeping his eyes down and his Gallion held tightly against his chest.

Shimon approaches the reception desk once more as he and Ambroise both call out their goodnights, then rests his elbows on the countertop, once again claiming his casual chatting position as if nothing had happened at all.

For a few seconds, silence.

Then Shimon yelps loudly as his left ear is tugged — _hard_. “ _Never_ be pulling anything like that _ever_ again, Mister Stoneark,” Ambroise threatens as Shimon staggers back a few steps, shaking his head as if it’ll stop his now-sore ear from ringing. “You could have been getting yourself _murdered._ ”

But Shimon, despite his pain, can’t help but snicker a bit at the sound.

“Murdered?” Seriously? Please...

What a silly choice of words.


End file.
